barking at us to go to bed.
“In celebration of the fifth year of Cyclone Track being opened, the Gambini brothers have decided that the first jockey to cross the finish line at the sponsor race will have their entrance fee waived.”
My mouth falls open. No way. Someone will race this year for free? No fifty-thousand-dollar barrier? It could be anyone who got that free spot! It could be someone from Warren County, even. What if they won the derby at the very end? That kind of opportunity could save a family out here. It could set them on a different course for life, far away from poverty.
“It’s so exciting,” the woman says. “Of course, they’ll need a Titan to enter.”
My heart plummets, which is ridiculous. Even my dad turns off the radio at this last part.
“Who do they think they’re fooling?” he mumbles to himself, ignoring the fact that we’re here. “All they’re doing is letting some rich chump hold on to cash he doesn’t need.”
“Yep,” I mutter without thinking.
My dad’s eyes connect with mine.
Uh-oh .
“What are you guys doing up? Off to bed. Both of you!”
I jump up with Zara, and my mom returns to the kitchen. As I head back to my room, I can’t help sharing my father’s resentment. I once heard that a cat is both drawn to, yet repulsed by, the scent of its own litter box. Maybe that’s how I feel about the Titans. And about the celebrity magazines I hide beneath my mattress. They offer a glimpse into a different kind of life, one with excitement and security. I can’t help but be drawn to something like that.
I also can’t help but hate them for dangling a life that’s unreachable.
Two days later, Magnolia is elbow-deep in a hair accessory project she won’t leave alone. She begs me to come over and sit on her bed to watch her “genius in progress.” I’ve been vegging out in front of the television for six hours, and need to take a break before my eyeballs roll out of my head. I tell her I’ll be over after lunch, and decide to go for a walk around our neighborhood.
Where we live is nothing to get excited about—one-story houses with old siding and trash cans stinking by the curb. The homes are missing shutters, and their screen doors are torn. Mr. Reynolds has had a yellow couch on his front porch for as long as I can remember, and two houses down from there is a car parked in the grass.
Of course, most people’s lawns are 100% all-natural weeds anyway. Don’t want to wake to the sound of a lawn mower at 7:00 a.m.? Then we’ve got a place for you!
I smile thinking about my mother and these so-called lawns. Nothing in this entire world makes Mom more upset than people who don’t maintain their garden beds. If they knew what she did to their properties as they chased sleep, they’d probably torch our house.
Or give her an award.
I walk five or six blocks before my footsteps falter. There’s a man standing in his open garage wearing a welding mask, a machine between his hands. He’s sliding something under the machine slowly but steadily, rotating the piece every few seconds. Orange sparks fly in all directions, and a high-pitched whirring reaches my ears.
The man straightens and places a hand on his lower back, stretching. Then he flips the hood up on his mask and curses loud enough for me to hear him from across the street. I can see his face clearly now, but I knew who it was all along. Both hands find his hips as he turns and looks in my direction.
“Nice vest,” I yell.
He turns the machine off and squints. “You that girl from the track?”
“The one and only.” I make my way across the street, drawn by the way he stands just like my grandpa, leaning too far back, shoulders raised toward his ears. I’m not sure how I missed the fact that he lived so close to Magnolia and me until now.
“What’re you doing?” he says with obvious irritation.
“Preparing to catch you when you fall. It’s hotter today than it was on Monday.” I
“In celebration of the fifth year of Cyclone Track being opened, the Gambini brothers have decided that the first jockey to cross the finish line at the sponsor race will have their entrance fee waived.”
My mouth falls open. No way. Someone will race this year for free? No fifty-thousand-dollar barrier? It could be anyone who got that free spot! It could be someone from Warren County, even. What if they won the derby at the very end? That kind of opportunity could save a family out here. It could set them on a different course for life, far away from poverty.
“It’s so exciting,” the woman says. “Of course, they’ll need a Titan to enter.”
My heart plummets, which is ridiculous. Even my dad turns off the radio at this last part.
“Who do they think they’re fooling?” he mumbles to himself, ignoring the fact that we’re here. “All they’re doing is letting some rich chump hold on to cash he doesn’t need.”
“Yep,” I mutter without thinking.
My dad’s eyes connect with mine.
Uh-oh .
“What are you guys doing up? Off to bed. Both of you!”
I jump up with Zara, and my mom returns to the kitchen. As I head back to my room, I can’t help sharing my father’s resentment. I once heard that a cat is both drawn to, yet repulsed by, the scent of its own litter box. Maybe that’s how I feel about the Titans. And about the celebrity magazines I hide beneath my mattress. They offer a glimpse into a different kind of life, one with excitement and security. I can’t help but be drawn to something like that.
I also can’t help but hate them for dangling a life that’s unreachable.
Two days later, Magnolia is elbow-deep in a hair accessory project she won’t leave alone. She begs me to come over and sit on her bed to watch her “genius in progress.” I’ve been vegging out in front of the television for six hours, and need to take a break before my eyeballs roll out of my head. I tell her I’ll be over after lunch, and decide to go for a walk around our neighborhood.
Where we live is nothing to get excited about—one-story houses with old siding and trash cans stinking by the curb. The homes are missing shutters, and their screen doors are torn. Mr. Reynolds has had a yellow couch on his front porch for as long as I can remember, and two houses down from there is a car parked in the grass.
Of course, most people’s lawns are 100% all-natural weeds anyway. Don’t want to wake to the sound of a lawn mower at 7:00 a.m.? Then we’ve got a place for you!
I smile thinking about my mother and these so-called lawns. Nothing in this entire world makes Mom more upset than people who don’t maintain their garden beds. If they knew what she did to their properties as they chased sleep, they’d probably torch our house.
Or give her an award.
I walk five or six blocks before my footsteps falter. There’s a man standing in his open garage wearing a welding mask, a machine between his hands. He’s sliding something under the machine slowly but steadily, rotating the piece every few seconds. Orange sparks fly in all directions, and a high-pitched whirring reaches my ears.
The man straightens and places a hand on his lower back, stretching. Then he flips the hood up on his mask and curses loud enough for me to hear him from across the street. I can see his face clearly now, but I knew who it was all along. Both hands find his hips as he turns and looks in my direction.
“Nice vest,” I yell.
He turns the machine off and squints. “You that girl from the track?”
“The one and only.” I make my way across the street, drawn by the way he stands just like my grandpa, leaning too far back, shoulders raised toward his ears. I’m not sure how I missed the fact that he lived so close to Magnolia and me until now.
“What’re you doing?” he says with obvious irritation.
“Preparing to catch you when you fall. It’s hotter today than it was on Monday.” I
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